Like two wrestlers etched
around some ancient urn
we’d lace our hands,
then wrench
each other’s wrists back
until the muscles ached
and the tendons burned,
and one brother
or the other grunted Mercy—
a game we played
so many times
I finally taught my sons,
not knowing what it was,
until too late, I’d done:
grappling the little
ghost I was at ten—
who cried out Mercy!
in my own voice Mercy!
as I watched from deep
inside my father’s skin.